


The Red Pants Mystery

by thelookyouredoingthelookagain



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: An Unusual Case, Cleverness, Dancing, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, John and Sherlock Go To A Club, Kind of Sweet, M/M, Mysterious Texts, Red Pants, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Has a Plan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-10 13:58:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2027649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelookyouredoingthelookagain/pseuds/thelookyouredoingthelookagain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock involves John in an especially mysterious case. Which one of them will solve it and how will finding out the truth change everything?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Lost Bet Opens Sherlock's Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> All works here were produced by two friends in the fandom. One writes as SH and one as John, and we edit together. Our characters are based on the BBC's _Sherlock_ , though we don't mind playing a little loosely with canon and the occasional AU. We have whims and like to follow them. While we like to torture our boys with constant misunderstandings, we know they belong together and we always see to that.
> 
> All posted works are complete, and we hope there will be something for everyone. Please take a look at our other works. Just a note, though, there's pretty much always going to be smut. Sometimes fluff, sometimes angst, but always smut. We can't help it: that's just the way we are.
> 
> We plan to add new work each weekend, so please subscribe. 
> 
> We also really appreciate the kudos and comments --they mean so much. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

They had been watching their usual crap telly when it happened. Like he'd done before, Sherlock had tried to guess who the father of the child was, and John had bet him that he was wrong. The deal was the loser would do the laundry that week and by a crazy twist of fate, Sherlock chose the wrong man. Neither he nor John could believe it, but it was true. Sherlock had got it wrong.

As the days passed, the pile of laundry kept getting bigger and bigger until finally John had been forced to give up and do it. Unfortunately he'd waited too long and almost everything he owned had to be thrown into the machine.

John had been lounging in his pajamas in his room when Sherlock called up that they had a case. John had tried insisting on staying home but Sherlock wouldn't hear of it. John reluctantly trudged upstairs and tried to find something to throw on -- they wouldn't be out that long, anyways, right? He dug out an old pair of jeans from his university days, a long sleeved shirt that had managed to escape the wash, and then he pulled back his pants drawer, swearing when he found it empty. Well, almost empty.

He reached into the drawer and fished out a bright red pair that an old girlfriend had bought him a long time ago. He'd worn them exactly two times and had honestly forgotten he still had them. _How have they managed to stick around this long?_ he wondered as Sherlock called for him to hurry up. John sighed as he had no choice but to throw them on, planning on changing out of them as soon as they got home. Hoping they wouldn't peek out of his just-a-bit-small jeans, he finally headed downstairs.

Sherlock already had his coat on. "Let's go," he said impatiently, grabbing his coat. He glanced at John and headed towards the door before stopping. He turned and said, "Are you wearing cologne?"

"This shirt is dirty but it's all I had and I had to make it decent," John said, grabbing his coat.

"If that's a dig at me, it hasn't achieved its goal -- I told you I'd get to the laundry. If you had more clothes, you wouldn't be in this position. Regardless, come on," he headed downstairs and out the door.

John rolled his eyes and followed him out. He tugged his shirt down and was very thankful for his jacket.

Sherlock hailed a cab. He opened the door, allowing John to get in first. He leaned over and spoke to the driver and climbed in after John.

"No, it's not the cologne. It's something else," he mumbled, as if to himself. He looked at his watch.

"If you're saying that I stink, I will gladly stay home," John said.

"I said nothing of the sort," Sherlock said, looking out the window. "Why are you sensitive this evening?"

"I'm not. I just want to get back home and get the wash done," he said simply. 

"Something more exciting is afoot, John," Sherlock said, rubbing his hands together. "And besides, I need you with me."

"I never even do anything," he sighed. He really did like doing on cases with Sherlock, but couldn't the killer have waited until the clothes were dry?

"First off, that is not true. And secondly, you've been requested." Sherlock handed John his phone.

_Trafalgar Square. Bring him._

"Why me?" John asked surprised. 

"You'll have to ask him when we get there," Sherlock said. He was eager. He hated the not knowing, but knew that soon he would know.

John spent the rest of the ride trying to figure out why he would be specifically requested, momentarily forgetting about his clothing dilemma.

When they arrived at Trafalgar Square, Sherlock wandered. It was dark and more quiet than usual, probably due to the cold. The few people there did not seem interested in his presence. He turned back to John and asked, "See anyone you recognise?"

John scanned the people there and shook his head. "No, I don't," he said, still looking. 

"We're a little late," Sherlock said, looking at his watch again. "Let's wait a bit. Walk around but don't let me out of your eyesight. Could be dangerous."

John nodded, moving carefully and trying to subtly study faces. He still had nothing.  

Eventually Sherlock returned to John. "Let's go, there's nothing here for us." He rubbed his hands together, this time to warm them. "You look uncomfortable and cold. Do you want my scarf?"

John shook his head. "Where did Lestrade go?'

"It wasn't Lestrade," Sherlock said as he pulled John by the elbow. "Let's find some place to warm up. Any suggestions?"

"Home," John said, still looking around as Sherlock pulled him along. 

"You really have no sense of adventure this evening," Sherlock said. "There," he pointed to a coffee shop. "We can watch from the window for a bit longer. Come on, John. Aren't you even a bit curious?"

John grudgingly followed, tugging at his shirt to pull it down a bit. These jeans were not cooperating with him.

When they entered, Sherlock picked a table in the corner by the window. "Why are you acting so strangely?" he asked.

"I'm not acting strangely," John said a bit too quickly. "I'm just fine."

"You don't seem it," Sherlock mumbled.

A server approached the table and set down two cups of tea. "Mr Holmes, Dr Watson," he said. Sherlock's eyes met John's, but neither said anything. From his apron pocket, the server pulled a red rose and lay it next to John's mug before turning and walked away.

"It appears we were expected," Sherlock said.

John's eyes were fixed on the rose, glancing up at Sherlock only when he spoke. "Who's doing this? What's going on?" He looked around again for anyone he recognised. Still nothing. 

"It's hard to say . . . yet," he said, as an answer to both questions. "Has anything unusual happened to you today? This week?"

John shook his head. "Nothing out of the ordinary . . . you?"

"Being wrong and having to do the laundry were the last unusual things that happened to me," he said, smelling his tea before taking a sip.

"You haven't actually done the laundry . . ." John mumbled. He pushed his tea away when he saw Sherlock sniffing his own. 

"It's fine," Sherlock said, nodding his head towards John's mug. "There's no obvious connection between the laundry and tonight, at least at this point." He paused. "Unless you see one?" He asked, not looking at John but out the window instead.

John shook his head. "I can't even make up a scenario where our telly habits would lead to this," he said. 

Sherlock eyed John. "No adventure, no imagination . . . there's definitely something up with you, but I won't push if you don't feel like sharing." He held his cup to his face, looking over it at John.

"There is nothing up with me," John said. "I just want to get home because I'm wearing a dirty shirt, my jeans are too tight and -- " he cut off before he said something stupid. " -- and it's uncomfortable," he finished.  

"You should be uncomfortable. We're on a case and you don't know what's going on. That should urge you on, not make you want to give up. John, you don't smell. You look . . ," he struggled to find a word to ease John's anxiety, ". . . handsome." Then his face reacted and he reached into his pocket to retrieve his phone. He laid it down on the table for John to read.

_Where to next? I wonder. Perhaps the server has a suggestion?_

John was still blinking at Sherlock when he realised he was supposed to be looking down. "Who is sending those? What does that mean?" he asked looking up again. "And I do not look handsome," he countered a bit delayed. 

"I don't know, I'm not sure, and you do," Sherlock said, lifting his head to get the waiter's attention as he retrieved his wallet from his pocket. The server returned. "It's been taken care of, Mr Holmes," he said. "So what do you gentlemen have planned next?"  
  
Sherlock looked at John and then up at the server. "We're still deciding. The night is young. Do you have any suggestions?"

"The Red Room promises a good time," he said. "And it is only a short walk from here." He set a piece of paper on the table, on which were drawn the directions. Then he smiled at John and walked away.

Sherlock looked at the map. "A three minute walk. Shall we?"

"We're just going to go?" John asked. "Sherlock, we have no idea who is sending these messages or what's going to be at this place -- what is this place?" he asked. 

"Let's find out," he swallowed the last of his tea and stood up. "Do you want my coat or scarf? If they'd make you feel more comfortable, please take them," he offered sincerely.

"I'll be fine," John said. "Thanks, though," he added. 

They followed the map. Sherlock was, of course, right; they arrived within three minutes. The Red Room, which appeared to be a club as they could hear loud music from the pavement, also appeared to be quite popular: there was a queue that stretched down the street. As Sherlock turned to John, he heard a voice say "Mr Holmes? Dr Watson?" and they realised they were being called by one of the bouncers. They moved towards him and he released the velvet rope that had been keeping the others away from the door. Sherlock turned to John and asked, "Shall we?"

John tried to get a peek into the building before nodding. "Why not?"

Sherlock smiled at John: this was the John he had wanted with him tonight. They entered the club which was dark and loud and full of moving bodies. Sherlock grabbed John's hand and pulled him through the crowd towards the bar. "Let's get a drink. What do you want?"

"Just a pint is fine," John said, too surprised to argue. He let Sherlock pull him along through the crowd, thankful for the contact so they wouldn't get separated. 

Sherlock turned to the bar where a pint and a short glass of brown liquid were already sitting. The bartender smiled at both of them. Sherlock handed the pint to John and lifted his glass to toast. "To whatever follows," he said.

John tapped his glass against Sherlock's and drank a big gulp, looking around the club. He could feel the bass of the music in his gut and the floor was packed.

"Want to dance," Sherlock asked, "or shall we see if we can sit down over there?" He motioned to an area near the back with some oversized sofas. It, too, was packed, but it might be more comfortable than standing at the bar.

"I'm not very good at dancing," John said, not sure if Sherlock was completely serious. He looked out at the grinding bodies and then towards the crowded sofa. "Let's sit," he said.

They walked over to the seats just as a few people were getting up. Sherlock slid onto the sofa, leaving room for John. He looked around at the club: the music was appalling, but everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. A waiter passed the area and he nodded for him to bring them a second round.

"Sherlock, what is this? What is going on?" John asked again, having to lean close to be heard. He wasn't used to Sherlock not having any answers. It made him nervous. 

Sherlock smiled at John. "I don't know exactly what's going on, John," he said and took a sip from his glass. "But you are with me and everything is always fine when we're together. So relax a bit and enjoy it. Soon enough we'll both know what's going to happen next." It wasn't quite a satisfactory answer, he knew, but he hoped John would trust him.

"I know," John said. "But all of this . . . it's strange," he mumbled, sipping away at his pint.

"It is strange, John," Sherlock said, "but strange things happen, don't they?" He took another drink. "Maybe a better word is unusual. It's an unusual thing, isn't it? But enjoyable as well, I think."

John finished off his pint and stared at him. "Did you plan this?" he asked suddenly. 

"It's hard to say," Sherlock said nonchalantly. "I'm usually responsible for most of the trouble we get into, aren't I?" He reached into his pocket suddenly and took out his phone. He looked at it but this time didn't show John.

"What is it?" John asked leaning over to see. 

"Are you going to trust me? And try to enjoy yourself?" Sherlock said, keeping the phone hidden as he waited for the answer.

"Let me see first," John countered. 

"You have control issues," Sherlock said. He had heard the phrase on the show they had been watching when he lost the bet. Nevertheless, he turned the phone towards John. The text read:

_Whatever he wants to do next, do it._

"Me? Whatever I want?" John asked. He looked around the club again, trying to find someone he recognised . Still no one stood out from the crowd of people. 

Sherlock nodded and looked intently at John. "So what do you want to do?"

"I don't know," John answered honestly. He had wanted to go home before, but now he was curious as to who was sending these messages to Sherlock. "I want to know who this is," he said. 

"That doesn't appear to be a part of the equation," Sherlock answered. "Let me know when you decide. I'm going to get us another drink." He got up to move to the bar.

John watched him go, his mind racing as to what could be going on. He tugged at his jeans and tried to get a bit more comfortable. It seemed they would be staying for a while. 

When Sherlock returned, it appeared John had settled a bit. "So are we staying or would you prefer to go somewhere else? Whatever you want to do next, we do apparently," he said as he handed John his drink.

"We can finish these since you got them already and then we can go," he said. 

"Deal. Oh yes," Sherlock said, reaching into his jacket pocket. "The bartender told me to give you this." He handed him a small red napkin that had been folded over twice.

John opened the napkin up, expecting a note or something, but it was just a blank, red napkin. Red. Folded like a triangle. Like pants. John put the napkin down more confused than ever. Surely all of this strangeness couldn't be about that. 

Sherlock watched John and his reaction. "Does this mean you're leaving me?"

"What? Leaving you here?" John asked. 

"I presume that was the bartender's phone number and that it means you've pulled. Are you taking off with him, then?" he was smiling cheekily. "'Whatever you want to do next, do it' was the rule you know."

"First of all, the bartender is a man," John reminded Sherlock. "Second of all, the napkin is blank, you can see for yourself," he said, pushing it across the small table in front of them. 

"John, I am aware that the bartender is a man. I looked at him, I spoke to him. I am quite aware of what men look and sound like. You may have noticed there a quite a few men around us right now as a matter of fact. I would be happy to identify them for you, if you'd like. His being a man, though, doesn't eliminate the possibility of his fancying you. Men can fancy other men, you know. Yes, we all know you don't," he waved his hand as if the 'we all' included every single person in the club, "but some men can and do. I didn't look at the napkin, it was folded when he handed it to me, so I could only assume that it was his number as that is the kind of thing that seems to happen in clubs, as you well know from all the crap telly you make me watch."

"There's no need to be an arse about it," John said. "Anyways, at least his number would have been a bit more normal than a blank napkin."

"It's just . . . nothing," Sherlock mumbled. He suddenly reached for his phone. He looked at it, frowned slightly, then said, "Finish your drink, we're going home" as he turned the phone to show John the text:

_Go home now._


	2. John's Answer Shuts Sherlock Down

"Sherlock, who is sending you these messages?" John asked, pushing his half finished drink away from himself. 

"Perhaps we will never know. I don't know it matters much now. Come on," he said, slipping on his coat and scarf and heading towards the door.

John got up and followed him, dodging a few people as they made their way out into the street. 

They were quiet in the cab ride home. Sherlock unlocked the front door and let John enter first. When they got into the flat, they both saw a jar with a dozen red roses sitting on the kitchen table. Sherlock said, "I'm going to my room" and walked straight in, without even taking off his coat, closing the door behind him.

"Sherlock -- " John started but he was already gone. John examined the flowers, found no note or card or anything to say who they had come from. He left them right where they were and headed up stairs, looking forward to getting into his pajamas. This had by far been the strangest night he'd had with Sherlock.  

Sherlock was curled on his bed, trying not to think. He didn't like being wrong. He didn't like failed experiments. He didn't like not knowing what to say to John tomorrow. He didn't like the thought of ever having to leave his room again. He tried not to think.

John had gotten down to his pants when he remembered the laundry wasn't in his room. Had he passed the basket on his way up? Not wanting to get into those jeans again he just threw on his dressing gown and headed back downstairs. 

Sherlock heard John moving about the house. He wondered what John was doing. He wondered what John had done with the roses.

John went down to the retrieve the laundry but it wasn't there. After checking the entire flat, he went to Sherlock's room. "Is the wash in your room?" he asked, knocking on the door lightly. 

When Sherlock pouted, he invested a lot in the successful execution of the task. He heard John's knock, but decided not to respond until John called his name. When he did, Sherlock said, "Go away."

"Sherlock, if the basket is in there I need it," John said, this time knocking louder. 

"Fine, come in," Sherlock said but rolled his body so he was facing away from the door. When he heard it open, he said, "It's over in the corner."

John walked into his room and spotted the basket. "Thanks," he said. "I'll leave your stuff here, then," he said, pulling out the few things that were Sherlock's. 

"So you wore them then?" Sherlock threw the question into the air.

"Wore what?" John asked, setting his things on the chair in his room. He picked up the basket and waited. 

"You know what I'm talking about. At least tell me I was right about that," Sherlock said. He still hadn't turned to look at John.

For some reason, maybe the way that Sherlock said those words, his mind flashed to the little folded napkin and somehow he doubted that the bartender had anything to do with it. "What was going on tonight, Sherlock?" he asked softly. 

"I'm not sure I want to say," he answered quietly but not because he was pouting. Because he was really, really embarrassed. He added this to the list of things he didn't like and then immediately tried not to think about those things again.

"The truth would be nice," John said gently. "Please?"

"I don't like being wrong," Sherlock said, grateful the only light in the room came from the hallway lamp. "But I was wrong. About the show. So I started thinking, 'What else might I be wrong about?' So I devised an experiment to test something I had previously deduced." He swallowed. "But it turns out I hadn't been wrong after all."

"What experiment?" John asked, suddenly feeling very exposed. He had a strange feeling _he_ was the experiment and it made him feel weird, like he'd been used or tricked some how.   

Sherlock knew what John was thinking. "It _was_ a trick. I tricked you. I'm sorry. I thought it would be fun. I thought it would be an adventure. I thought you liked our adventures. I see now it was a very, very bad idea for a whole host of reasons." In addition to feeling embarrassed, Sherlock felt sorry. He felt sorry he couldn't have just talked to John like a normal person would. He also felt sorry that he let himself be . . . hopeful wasn't quite the right word, but he should have just trusted himself in the first place and this whole stupid thing would have never happened. "I'm sorry," he said again.

"I want you to tell me what you hoped to get out of this," John said. Why would the whole basket be in Sherlock's room? It wouldn't. Had he hidden it there, forcing John into this outfit? The red pants and the tight jeans . . . but how did he know about them? He felt awkward in his dressing gown, holding this basket of clothes but he didn't know what else to do. 

"No," Sherlock said. "I'm sorry I tricked you, there are your clothes. It's over. Let's leave it at that and just try . . . to be like it was before." He had curled up unknowingly, feeling incredibly . . . stupid.


	3. Sherlock Has To Admit The Truth

John put the basket down on the ground and moved over to the bed, not really sitting on it but leaning against it. "Were you trying to get me out on a date?" he asked quietly. 

"No, not exactly," Sherlock said. "I was trying to find out . . . John, this is utterly humiliating. Please. . . I can't. . ."

"Just tell me, Sherlock. I think I deserve to know," he said. 

Sherlock turned and opened his bedside cabinet. He took out a piece of paper and scribbled on it. Then he handed it to John and curled up again, facing away from him. He wrote:

_I was trying to find out if you liked me. Now I know. Please let this end._

John nodded and folded up the paper again. He slowly got up and picked up the basket. "I would have said yes, you know, if you had asked me out. I could have worn normal pants and jeans that fit and a clean shirt so I wouldn't have had to rush home. I would have had a drink with you and I might even have been convinced to dance," he said, smiling softly at the image. When Sherlock remained facing away John left quietly, heading back up to his room.

Sherlock rolled over when he heard John's footsteps on the stairs. That was an unexpected response, he thought. He literally had no idea what to do next. He was so much better at complicated schemes, at tricking people to find out what was going on. He couldn't handle normal conversations where both people say exactly what they mean. Is what John said what he really meant?

Being wrong had started this whole problem. Was he wrong again? Sherlock had started this whole problem. He should finish it. He got up and went to the kitchen. He saw the flowers still sitting on the table. He put the kettle on and made two cups of tea. He moved slowly up the stairs to John's room. He stood outside the shut door for a moment. Then he said, "Tea. Do you want me to just leave it outside your door?" No, he had not said what he meant. So he tried again and said, "John, please can I come in?"

John sank down onto his bed, the basket near the door. He was thinking about Sherlock, and everything he'd done tonight. The flowers, the trip out -- Sherlock was usually so straightforward. Where had all this come from? Of course John couldn't be too surprised because he really would have said yes. His thoughts were interrupted by Sherlock at his door. So this wasn't over yet. "You can come in," he said.

Sherlock pushed open the door with his knee and carried the mug to John. "May I sit down?" he asked and then did at the end of the bed. He had absolutely no plan whatsoever and after the last few hours -- to be fair, the entire last week -- when every single action was part of his plan, it felt uncomfortably unfamiliar. So he sat in silence until he thought the silence had probably gone on too long. Then he said, "You said you would have gone on a date with me had I just asked. But I'm a man." It was neither a question nor a statement but it would have to do as an opening line from someone without a plan to hand.

John took the mug with a small thank you and then waited as the silence stretched out between them. He allowed it to go on, letting Sherlock collect his thoughts.  When he finally spoke John bit his lip and nodded. "Yes, that's true," he said. "But you are different. It's not fair of me to assume you knew that so I will tell you now. I don't like men, but I like you. I wouldn't date another man, but I would date you. I don't know how to explain it," he admitted with a small shrug. 

"I was unaware you felt that way," Sherlock said. He had been convinced that John would never be interested in him because he was a man. John had not been subtle about his non-interest in men.   
  
However, Sherlock needed to think more before he spoke about John's other point, about Sherlock's being different, being an exception. This, of course, was not the first time he'd heard that. There were great advantages to being exceptional, but being different sometimes came with unfair expectations and a greater possibility of being hurt.

He was interested in John in that way -- obviously he wouldn't have gone to so much trouble nor would he have been so distraught if his experiment had been based purely on objective curiosity. He liked John and was attracted to him; he wanted John to feel the same way. But John's interest came with a caveat -- not men, just Sherlock -- and that wasn't the same way Sherlock felt. Not that Sherlock wanted to date other men; he didn't. Others just didn't figure into the equation at all. This is kind of what John said, but not exactly the same and it niggled at Sherlock. It mattered even though he wasn't sure why.

"I don't know how to explain how I feel," Sherlock said. "I might do at some point, but I seem unable to at the moment. Except to say again I'm sorry that you felt I took advantage. I promise I really meant for it to be . . . nice."

"I know it's strange, I hope you don't take it the wrong way," John said, looking over at him. "It's just . . . I've never been attracted to men, and then I met you and I started feeling all of this stuff I was trying to ignore it because I thought . . . well, I don't know what I thought. I didn't know you felt the same way, and knowing that now, I guess your trickery is kind of sweet," John smiled, nudging his arm lightly. 

"It took a lot of work," Sherlock said too quickly. He then wished he hadn't, although it had taken a lot of work. "That's why I couldn't get to the laundry. I was busy planning," he tried to smile to lighten things a little.

"Was stealing all of my clothes not part of the plan?" John asked, smiling at him.

"I did not steal them . . . I just needed you to be not wearing your normal clothes tonight," Sherlock said. It had all made good sense at the time. He wasn't quite sure it would seem so clever now.

"I would have dressed appropriately," John laughed. "And worn more comfortable pants to be honest," he smiled.

"But then everything would have been as normal, and I'd already obser-" he stopped, "I thought that if something external were different, then you'd might take a slightly different approach than your usual behaviour. That was theory at least," he sighed. "But I was proven wrong again."

"What had you observed?" John asked.

"That you were uninterested in men. That, you've given me ample opportunity to observe. And obviously I am a man," Sherlock said. "I thought if things were just shaken up a bit . . . I don't know . . . perhaps you would respond differently. It wasn't about persuasion. I wasn't really trying to trick you in that way. I guess I was just hoping for a hint or a reveal. I guess I thought you'd get distracted by the red pants, then be involved in the case, and then . . . I don't really know, I guess."

"And then I'd be swept away by your brilliance and let you have your way with me?" John grinned, nudging his arm again. "That happened a long time ago, and frankly I'm throwing these pants out after tonight," he said.

Sherlock shook his head emphatically. "No, John, it wasn't like that," he said. "It's important to me you understand that," he paused, "I guess I just wanted to know. I don't think I thought further than that. I'm not sure what I was planning to do with the information. I just don't like the not knowing -- about anything -- but especially this."

John nodded. "I was teasing, Sherlock, and of course I know that you would never try and take advantage of me like that," he said. "So, what do you plan on doing now that you know?"

Sherlock looked at John. He looked around the room. He closed his eyes for a moment and looked inside. "I honestly have no idea what to do now," he said.


	4. Sherlock Is Without A Plan

"Would you rather just go back to how things were?" Sherlock asked quietly."Or should it be different now? I'm good at schemes, not these kinds of dilemmas."

"The way we were before was just good friends," John said. "But we've both just admitted to feeling more than that. Doesn't it make sense that things will be different now? That there will be more?"

"Yes, that makes sense," Sherlock answered. Was this the same Sherlock who had masterminded the brilliant adventure they had gone on this evening? He felt completely adrift -- no idea what exactly to do or say. Everything in the last few hours had been a strategy, but he knew he probably should not be thinking like that now. But how was he supposed to think? He cursed himself for not planning further, for not considering what to do or say once he found out the truth. "But . . . what does that mean? Practically?"

"Well, we'll be boyfriends instead of friends," John said simply. "We'll hold hands when we show up at crime scenes and snog when you're being really clever," he grinned.

This kind of shocked Sherlock. In a good way. He could think of nothing better than holding hands and snogging, especially as a reward for being clever, which he often was. Perhaps these things are what he had wanted his scheme to lead to. He thought about how tonight could have gone and decided that he would have liked John to have held his hand as they walked to the club, to have danced with him, to have kissed him in the cab on the way home. Perhaps that's what the scheme really was about, he was just too distracted to realise it.

"Okay," Sherlock said. "I would like it to be like that." They looked at each other, smiling.

Then Sherlock looked at the floor and said, "I suppose some people might think that my plan tonight -- despite its imperfections -- was in fact quite clever . . . "

John grinned. "I don't know," he teased. "You didn't really get the point across and I had to do most of the work."

"But the texts did fool you," Sherlock said, wanting both acknowledgement and possibly a snog. "However, it is true that ultimately it was you who finally got things sorted. So if we snog when I'm clever, what do we do when you are?"

"That's your decision, as it is up to you to reward me. I can only reward you," John said, leaning a bit closer and grinning wider.

John really was clever sometimes. This was one of those times. Sherlock thought for a moment. Then he stood up and said, "Okay, when you're being really clever, we'll dance. Follow me." He led John back into the living room, turned off one of the lamps and put on a record of [**Fauré's Pavane, Op. 50**](http://youtu.be/mpgyTl8yqbw?list=RDmpgyTl8yqbw). He held out his hand to John and pulled his body close to his, slipping his arm around his waist. He pressed his cheek to the side of John's head, and they began to dance slowly in the dimly lit room.

"I would have danced with you at the club . . . with a few more drinks," John said quietly.

"Hmmm," Sherlock said skeptically, though there was something of a purring sound to it as well. "This music is better anyway. Besides, there's less of a stench of sweat in the air here," he smiled against John's head. The hand that was holding John's shifted so their fingers were laced together. Sherlock slid his other hand from John's waist to his lower back as they gently moved their bodies together.

"This is much nicer," John agreed, leaning fully against him. "I think it's going to be rather strange if we start slow dancing at crime scenes," he teased.

"Well, just don't get too clever then," Sherlock said into John's hair. Then he turned his head and looked at John's face. "To be fair, I am usually clever at crime scenes and I imagine it'd be equally strange if we started snogging at one as well. Shall we save the rewards for the flat then?" He smiled at John then added, "You dance well, by the way."

John grinned. "I suppose I can try and control myself," he said. "And I had to learn how to dance when I was younger." 

"You are a man of surprises tonight, John Watson," Sherlock said, pressing their chests together to rest his chin on John's head. John's hair against his skin produced an urge to lift his hand and lose his fingers in it, but he didn't. Instead he pressed his hand a bit more into John's back, like a hug. "I'm enjoying this," he said aloud because it was what he was thinking. 

John nuzzled his head into his chest and nodded. "I am too," he said quietly. "This was a good idea."

"A clever one, you mean?" Sherlock said. And then he did something that surprised himself: he pulled the hand that was holding John's towards his face and began gently kissing John's fingers, entwined with his own. Soft, little kisses on each of John's knuckles. Then he twisted his hand slightly to kiss the inside of John's wrist.

John moved back to watch Sherlock, his breath stuck in his throat. Heat flooded his body and he moved his free hand from Sherlock's waist up to his neck, pulling him down. "You are a clever man," he whispered, pressing his lips to Sherlock's. 

When their mouths met, Sherlock closed his eyes and let thoughts go. Anything that came before -- questions, confusion, schemes -- no longer seemed to matter. They were kissing. It was lovely. Sherlock brought his free hand up to John's cheek, tipping his head slightly. He moved their hands to their shoulders -- he thought about letting go, putting both hands to John's face -- but he didn't want to. He didn't care how it looked: he was holding John's hand, touching John's face, and kissing John's mouth. All three he found very satisfying.

John flicked his tongue out along Sherlock's lip, his hand moving up a bit higher and tangling in the curls. His lips were so soft, and his body was so warm, and he never wanted this to end. Sherlock was absolutely intoxicating. 

The record finished playing. It was silent in the room. So when Sherlock let out a small moan at the feel of John's hand in his hair, it seemed louder than he thought it would. But he didn't care, because the feeling . . . he and John had touched before, of course, but there was something so intimate about fingers in hair, made even more intense obviously by lips and tongues touching as well. All of a sudden it was almost too much. Sherlock broke the kiss and dipped his chin, pressing his forehead to John's, as if he needed to catch his breath. And when he felt settled, he looked up at John again and kissed him, hard this time. He dropped John's hand, cupped John's face with both his hands before allowing them to slide through John's hair, bringing his face even closer.

When Sherlock pulled away John panted softly, his eyes moving wildly over his handsome face. And then Sherlock looked up at him and his breath hitched and they were kissing again, harder than before, and John was moaning as Sherlock held his hair and his head tightly to his own. John's hands pulled his shirt into fists. 

This kiss brought a different urge to Sherlock and this time he allowed it. He pressed his hips into John's body as he continued to kiss his mouth, his tongue slipped in to find John's. Still holding John's head, he walked them both over to the wall -- a different kind of dance. Once there, he bent slightly and slid his body up John's, pushing him against the wall. He nipped at John's lips as his hands moved in John's hair.

John moaned loudly when he hit the wall, breathing in heavily as Sherlock ground against him. Christ that felt good. He gripped Sherlock's hips and pulled them hard as he pushed his own out, rutting against him as they kissed.  

Sherlock moved his mouth to John's ear. He licked and then sucked it before breathlessly saying, "John." He bit it lightly. "This is beginning to feel dangerously . . . more."

John nodded quickly, his breath ragged with lust. "Is that...okay?" he breathed. 

"Yes," Sherlock said. "You're so . . ." he was unused to giving compliments, certainly ones of this nature, so he said the first word that came to mind, "beautiful. I love touching you." And as if to prove it, he slid his hand from John's hair across his face, letting his fingertips linger on John's soft lips. He kissed them again.

John kissed his fingers as they passed his mouth before his lips were again against Sherlock's. John tugged Sherlock's shirt out of his trousers and reached into it, grazing his stomach with his hands.

John's touch on his bare skin -- another intimacy. Sherlock gasped at the feeling and wanted more of it. He unbuttoned his shirt, watching John as he did, and let it fall off. He opened John's dressing gown, slipped it off, and pressed their bare chests together. His mouth went to John's neck, sucking his skin, and his hands reached around John's waist to his bare back.

John's hands roamed wildly over his chest until they were pressed together. He moaned loudly, tilting his head and arching against him. 

Sherlock let his hands touch up and down John's back, moving from his shoulders to hips. His mouth covered John's neck. He began rocking his hips, his body moving into a rhythm, pressing against John, pressing John against the wall. "John," he moaned, "I want . . ."

John panted softly. "Tell me," he breathed. 

"To touch you." He dropped one of his hands to the waistband of John's pants and let his fingertips slide between the material and John's skin.

John moaned softly and pushed his hips out, his own fingers now working to remove Sherlock's trousers. 

Sherlock wiggled slightly to help John and soon they were the same, naked except for their pants. Once again, Sherlock slid his hands around John, pressing into him. Even through the two thin layers of material, the heat between their hard cocks was palpable. Assuming that the removal of his own trousers was John's implicit agreement, Sherlock slid his hand down the front of John's pants and held his cock. The skin was soft and hot and Sherlock stroked it lightly, finding John's neck with his mouth once more.

John groaned as their cocks pressed together, bringing his hands around Sherlock's back, tracing every curve and dip. He bucked into Sherlock's hand, imagining those long fingers wrapped around him, getting even harder at the thought. 

Even in this intense moment, Sherlock was still Sherlock and he noted the varying features of the skin on John's body -- hand: tough but smooth; neck: lined, salty; back: tight, scarred. As he gripped John's cock, he was taken by its baby soft skin, beneath which was a hard heat that urged him into a steady, firm rhythm. With his free hand, he pulled at his own pants, trying to get them off. "Help me," he whispered to John.

John nodded, gripping Sherlock's pants and tugging down, pushing desperately. They only made it to his thighs before John gripped his cock and stroked him. 

Sherlock let out a small gasp at John's touch. It felt so good to be touched. It was slightly chaotic -- their bodies so close together, each of their hands moving on the other's cock, but the frenzy only made it sexier.

John was panting and moaning softly, his head leaning against Sherlock's shoulder. 

"John," Sherlock said again. There was something so reassuring, exciting, and just good about saying his name, "can I put my mouth on you?"

John breathed out heavily and nodded, cupping Sherlock's cheek and meeting his gaze. 

Sherlock kissed John's mouth and then got onto his knees. He held John's cock with one hand and licked a stripe up the underside. It tasted like sex. His tongue covered it, smothered it until it was wet and he slipped it into his mouth, still swirling his tongue, and gently sucking.

John shuddered and leaned against the wall, gripping Sherlock's hair. His eyes slipped closed as he focused on Sherlock's hot, wet mouth swallowing him. 

This was not the first time Sherlock had done this but it was the first time in a long time. Yet it was new, not like before. He didn't think about what to do, he just did. He knew it gave John pleasure, but it also gave Sherlock pleasure. It was sexy, doing this to John against the wall in their flat. John's fingers were in his hair, encouraging him as he licked and sucked and swallowed John.

"Christ Sherlock . . . " John moaned, writhing so he wouldn't buck into Sherlock's mouth. He blinked his eyes open, forcing himself to look down and watch. He moaned loudly at the sight of it. 

John's voice had something to it -- an urgency maybe but more importantly an honesty. It was strange that after tonight, built on equal but different types of hidden details, they would be sharing something so honest. Sherlock's other hand slid down John's leg and back up, moving underneath to lightly pull John's balls. His mouth moved swiftly to take them in before turning its attention back to the heat of John's cock.

John whimpered, his head falling back against the wall with a soft thud. "Sh-Sherlock . . ." John breathed, heat pooling into his belly. He stroked Sherlock's hair. 

It was so easy. He hadn't used any tricks or schemes but John was telling him exactly how he felt, without even using words. Sherlock knew and John knew he knew. Sherlock wanted to make sure John also knew what he was feeling. "You taste good," he hummed into John's skin. "This . . . I love it."

John nodded, catching his breath. "Your turn," John murmured, trying to pull Sherlock back up. 

Sherlock rose and smiled at John. He kissed John's cheek and let John's hands turn their bodies so Sherlock's back was to the wall.

John sank down onto his knees and kissed Sherlock's stomach, licking stripes along the curve of the muscles, his hands rubbing Sherlock's thighs. 

Sherlock was relatively sure that this was the first time John had done this. He was conscious of his body, his body's reactions. He wanted to put his hand in John's hair, but instead just stood, feeling John's mouth on places he had not expected to feel it.

John glanced up as he kissed lower, sucking in soft skin as he moved downwards. 

John's slow approach was almost painfully sexy. Did he know what he was doing to him? Sherlock licked his lips and tried to maintain a regular inhale and exhale, anticipating.

John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's cock and angled it towards his mouth, sucking and kissing at the head. 

John's name escaped from Sherlock's lips. He took a sharp inhale of breath and then tried to regain some composure. "Good," he whispered.

John tasted the precome already, sucking as much as he could into his mouth, starting a slow rhythm back and forth. His free hand continued to stroke Sherlock's thigh. 

It was very difficult being patient, Sherlock thought, but difficult things are often the most rewarding. He let his hips move just slightly, allowing them to follow but not affect John's rhythm. He wanted to look at John, but thought better of it -- it would undoubtedly be too much. He concentrated on John's hand on his leg.

John moved a bit faster as he got more used to the feeling of Sherlock heavy in his mouth. He moved his hands to tug at his balls as well, pausing his other hand to focus on the movement of his fingers.

Sherlock let out a small noise. He wanted so much to touch John. He moved his hand to his hip, so it was nearer. "John," he said slowly, "That feels so right."

John hummed around him, reaching up to touch his hand, letting him know it was okay. 

Sherlock weaved his fingers with John's. He let his eyes open and looked down. God, it was John, who he loved and now knew loved him back. He let his eyes close again, heard the music they had danced to in his head, and just enjoyed.

John hollowed his cheeks, moaning around him and flicking his tongue over the tip, swirling around the head. 

Suddenly, Sherlock felt too much. His body tightened, his hand jerked to John's head, and he cried out, "John, too much . . . I'm . . . you'd better stop." He focused on his breath, felt it enter and exit his body.


	5. Sherlock Gets What He Hadn't Realised He Wanted

John pulled off, kissing up his stomach again before meeting his eyes. "Now?" he murmured against his skin. 

"Whatever we do, let's be horizontal," Sherlock said smiling at John. "I feel very heavy on my legs." He touched John's face. "Thank you," he said gently.

John pecked one more kiss on his stomach before standing up, pecking his cheek as well. 

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's neck, kissed John's mouth and dragged his tongue to John's ear. "Take me to your bed," he whispered into it.

John looked towards the stairs, so far away, but he gripped Sherlock's hand and led him quickly, almost stumbling in his haste.

Is this what Sherlock had wanted when they were in Trafalgar Square? John to grab his hand and pull him home to bed? Now John did that, led his to his room and they fell onto John's bed. Sherlock lay on top of John, his smile turned into a kiss, turned into more. His arms slid around John. The weight of his body made him sense every single place their skin touched. "I love you," Sherlock said before he knew the words were coming out.

John wrapped his arms around his middle, kissing along his neck. "I love you, too," John smiled. 

"That makes me feel very . . . happy," Sherlock said, his smile wider than it'd been for weeks. "It makes me feel a bit . . . horny as well. Though maybe that's more due to the fact that we are both unclothed in what some might call a relatively compromising position."

John couldn't help laughing. "I think it's both of these things," he agreed. 

Sherlock blushed. "Let's kiss more," he said.

John grinned and nodded, leaning up to catch his lips again. 

These kisses were softer, sweeter really, comfortable. For a second Sherlock considered suggesting they get under the duvet, wrap up in each other and fall to sleep. Then John shifted his body ever so slightly and suddenly there was a feeling in Sherlock's stomach that sent an electric shock through him. He shifted as well, moving to sit up. "Let's try something," he said to John. "Sit up."

"What are we doing?" John asked curiously, doing as Sherlock said. 

"Just something different. Are you cold? Let's get under the covers, but stay sitting up." Once John had slipped his legs under the duvet, Sherlock said, "Scoot down a bit," and moved to sit behind John, his long legs on either side of John's. Sherlock began massaging John's trapezius muscles. "You weren't dressed properly this evening. You should have taken my scarf," he said. "Your muscles are tight. Do they hurt? Is this okay how I'm rubbing them?"

John sighed and leaned back into his touch. "That feels . . . very good," John smiled softly. 

Sherlock kept rubbing but he also leaned into John and sucked one of his earlobes. Then he trailed John's hairline with his nose and began kissing the nape of his neck. He let his hair brush against John's skin. He said, "You tell me if anything hurts, okay?" as if nothing else were happening except for the massage.

John moaned softly as Sherlock's mouth moved along these new places. "I will," he murmured. He brought his own hands to his side and rubbed Sherlock's legs up and down. 

Sherlock moved his hands to the top of John's shoulders, sliding a bit down his arms. His hands worked into John's muscles. He leaned in and gently kissed John's scar, before returning to his neck, this time sucking and nipping at it. He felt his own cock twitch a little, but kept at John's neck. He hummed "Mmmm. . . you taste good."

God, his hands really were amazing. John tilted his head with a small sigh, smiling at his words. "So do you," he murmured. 

Slowly Sherlock moved one of his hands under John's arm to his chest. He pressed across John's pectoral muscles and brushed his fingertips over his nipple. His other hand dropped from John's arm to his hip and then slid to grip John's cock, which he began stroking as he kissed and bit at John's shoulders.

John arched and leaned back against Sherlock, moaning loudly. "Sh-Sherlock . . ." he breathed. He wanted to do something for Sherlock but this position made it a bit difficult. 

"I want you to do something," Sherlock said in John's ear. "Tell me," he licked up his earlobe. “Tell me what to do next."

"I want to do something . . . for you," John breathed. 

"Then tell me what you want. _That's_ what I want you to do for me," Sherlock whispered. "Tell me what you want me to do." 

"Keep . . . .tasting me, " John flushed lightly. It sounded filthy but God did he love Sherlock's tongue tracing his skin, claiming him as his own. 

Sherlock moved the hand on John's chest to the nape of his neck, lifted the hair a little. He licked from that spot straight down to between John's shoulder blades. His hand followed down John's spine. His other hand still gently stroked John. 

Next Sherlock traced the curve of John's shoulder blades with his tongue, going as low as he could. He found himself arching his hips closer to John's, but he tried to keep from touching. Instead his fingers pressed into the lines his lips had made.

John moaned through each movement, closing his eyes at the feel of it. "God, Sherlock," he moaned, leaning his head back and holding on to Sherlock's thighs. 

Sherlock scratched his hand up John's back and into his hair. He pulled his head slightly and began sucking his neck as he let his fingers move to John's cheek, his fingertips on John's bottom lip. He worked his other hand a little harder, a little faster. "Do you want me to keep doing this?" he said.

John bucked into his hand, feeling Sherlock's cock behind him. "I want that," he sighed. He started moving, turning himself around. "I want you," he murmured.

"Whatever you want to do, do it," Sherlock said, "That was supposed to be the guideline for tonight."

John nodded. "Will you use your fingers?" he asked, hardly believing the words coming out of his mouth.

"I will do whatever you want me to," Sherlock said. "Here," he said, shifting their bodies down the bed a bit. He helped John turn and lifted his legs around Sherlock's sides. He left a little space between their bodies. Sherlock leaned in and kissed John's mouth hard. John sat up and silently reached for into the drawer next to the bed. He pulled out a small bottle of lube and a condom. He tried not to blush.

Sherlock said nothing but tipped some lube into his hand and then held John's cock again, rubbing, as he watched John's eyes close. Sherlock's other hand drifted to John's balls, pulling them slightly, letting his fingertips slip over John's hole. He felt a shiver in John's body. He whispered, "Okay," and slowly slipped one finger inside him. 

"Ohh," John moaned softly, arching his back. "Hurry."

"Don't be impatient, John," Sherlock whispered into his ear. "Enjoy this now." He moved into a steady rhythm but not too hard. Despite John's movement, Sherlock didn't want to rush. He wanted John to enjoy everything, every action should be its own pleasure, not a preparation for something else. He curled his finger slightly as he moved his mouth to John's, not kissing really, just pressing into it, his tongue slipping to touch John's lips.

John moaned and nodded, bringing his tongue out to meet Sherlock's, kissing him lightly. 

Sherlock slowly slipped a second finger in, using his thumb for pressure outside. He kept his rhythm, increasing the speed and thrust just slightly. "Now move your hips," he whispered into John's mouth. "Push yourself against me. Slowly."

John moaned loudly and nodded. He pushed down, moving slowly even though his body ached to go fast. He didn't want Sherlock to stop. 

"Does that feel good?" Sherlock was purring now. "It feels good to me. It makes me . . . anticipate." He moved his fingers, opening John. He could feel his own hips rocking. 

"So good . . ." John nodded, pushing down against his hand harder. 

Sherlock kissed John's face and neck some more. He loved the taste of John's skin. There were slight differences depending on the body part, of course, but it was all delicious because it was all John. The two of them rocked the bed and he could hear its noise marking their rhythm. Soon he said, "Let's try now" and slipped his fingers from John. He reached for a condom and rolled it on, his own cock hot and sensitive. He shifted John's body up onto his lap and guided his cock to John's opening. John's arms rested on his shoulders and Sherlock looked up at his face as he pushed the tip in. He closed his eyes, letting his head fall back slightly. Then he straightened up and looked at John. "Push very slowly," he instructed, "We need to feel every second of this moment."

John groaned softly at the new, bigger intrusion. He held onto Sherlock tightly, nodding at his words, slowly guiding himself lower, sinking onto his cock. He could feel every inch sinking in, stretching and filling him. 

"God, John, it . . . you . . ." Sherlock couldn't say anything as he felt himself being taken into John's body. He stopped breathing until he realised he'd stopped breathing and he inhaled. He couldn't hold up his head, which fell onto John's chest. When he felt John's body stop, he lifted his head to look at John's face. He swallowed and said, "Just feel this with me for a minute. It feels good, John."

John nodded, pausing when he was all the way down. "Oh god, Sherlock . . . " He reached down and pecked kisses on his face. 

"I love you" escaped from Sherlock's mouth. He sunk into the closeness, pulling John's chest to his. Their skin was hot and damp. Then he lowered his hands to John's hips. "Are your legs okay? I want us to stay like this for a moment, but you're going to have to do most of the work." 

"I know," John breathed. "I'm okay . . . c-can I move?"

"Please," Sherlock said. "Just start slowly. Then . . . listen to your body." He braced himself for John's movement.

John nodded, lifting up and sinking back down, every movement agonizingly slow. His fingers dug into Sherlock's shoulders as he braced himself.

Pleasure shot through Sherlock. John was tight around him, and the movement made it all the more intense. His face tightened and he exhaled to relax his body as much as possible. His hands moved with John's hips, until he caught himself leading them and tried to stop. His urge was to move harder, faster, but he also wanted to savour. "Yes," he moaned softly. 

John was panting, his legs starting to burn from holding his weight this way. "Lay down," he breathed, pushing Sherlock onto the bed. John settled his knees around Sherlock's hips and started moving again, much easier this time, and just a bit faster. 

In this position, Sherlock could buck his hips up against John. Their movement became more frenzied and even hotter. Sherlock liked watching John move against him, he liked feeling himself move into John. The muscles in John's chest and abdomen were tight, and Sherlock said, "Your body is gorgeous."

"Yours is," John breathed, moving faster now. He couldn't help it -- it felt so good and he wanted more. "I love you," he moaned as he moved up and down on Sherlock, clutching the bed by Sherlock's head. 

Sherlock awkwardly lifted his head to try to kiss John's mouth. He used his hands to shift John's movement slightly, allowing his cock to move in even more deeply. Then he put his hand on John's cock and began stroking it, trying to mimic the rhythm of their bodies. 

"God," John gasped, feeling Sherlock so deep every time he came down on him. He moved faster, falling onto him harder. "So good. . ."

Sherlock could feel a pressure building inside him. "John, do you want to lie down or . . . I'm not going to last much longer like this," he managed to say, his breath panting between every word.

"Whatever you want," John panted. He leaned forward more, his hips moving wildly now.

"I want to come," Sherlock said, still stroking John, "and I want you to come with me. I'm close . . . if you're not, you might need to stop moving for a second . . . " Sherlock's face was damp with sweat. His body was coursing with energy, he was struggling to keep it from exploding. 

John looked down and paused, leaning down to kiss Sherlock. "I don't want it to end yet," he breathed. He pecked kisses all over his face, waiting for the okay to move again.

Sherlock concentrated on John's body; it was easier now. "Show me what you like," he said, using his free hand to place John's over his on John's cock.

"Twist," John said, moving both of their hands.

Sherlock followed John's guidance. His hips still rocked with the movement of their hands, but he tried to keep them in check and watch for John's reactions as they both stroked.

"Oh," John moaned, starting to slowly move again.

Sherlock kept stroking but let his hips buck, moving into John again. He tried to keep the rhythms in sync, but soon the pleasure took over everything and both his hips and hand starting moving more wildly. In his head flashed everything that had happened this evening -- the first cab ride, the coffee shop, the club, the roses, the dance, their bodies against the wall -- and this. The pressure that had been building -- all night, all week, maybe even since John and Sherlock first met -- was too great for his body to hold. He called out John's name as he came, his hips lifting right off the bed despite John's weight. His entire body froze in tension and then released and his heart began beating again. 

John gasped when Sherlock came away from the bed, falling forward over his torso. But those sounds and his face and his orgasm . . . it all pushed John over and he came over Sherlock's chest, calling out his name. He collapsed onto him and tried to catch his breath.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's back, pulling him as close as possible. Their hearts pounded against each other and the panting matched. "Good, good, good," Sherlock exhaled.

"Sherlock, Christ . . . ." John breathed, pecking small kisses on his chest.

Sherlock carefully shifted their bodies as he pulled out of John as delicately as possible. He used the sheet to wipe up the front of his body before remembering he was in John's bed. He mumbled an apology. Then he snuggled into John's shoulder and softly asked, "May I sleep in your bed with you tonight?"

"Of course," John nodded, kissing the top of his head. "Wherever you want, as long as it's with me," he smiled softly. 

Sherlock slid his arm across John's chest and curled in his legs. "This has been an unexpected evening in many ways," he said.

John nodded. "I know . . . all because you made one simple mistake about a television show," he teased. 

"One way of looking at it, I suppose," he smiled. "Of course, one could also say it was actually down to my plan. After all, I did get you to tell me how you feel, dance with me, kiss me and . . . do other things with me. I'd say the plan was a success really. Sometimes even I get amazed by my cleverness."

John playfully rolled his eyes. "Your plan was a complete failure, and for someone who's so good at observing, you're terrible at surprises."

Sherlock lifted his head. He looked at John seriously and said, "You lie. You were genuinely interested in who was sending the texts. And all the red, that didn't pique your curiosity? And the roses at home?"

"I guess . . . only because I thought a killer had been in my pants drawer," John grinned. 

Sherlock laughed. "It doesn't matter if you admit it or not. It was clever. True, it didn't go exactly as I planned or rather I suppose I left some gaps in the latter stages. But it was clever and you know it." He nuzzled back into John's shoulder and then said quietly, "And don't act like the blow job didn't surprise you."

"You can't count that, it was after I fixed everything," John laughed. "And if you're fishing for kisses for you cleverness, it won't work!"

"As they say on your favourite crap television shows, John, whatevs," Sherlock laughed as he leaned over and kissed John's cheek. "Now stop going on about how clever I am, I need to go to sleep."

"You're the one that won't shut up," John laughed. 

Sherlock made a snoring sound. "What? Oh, John, you're still talking? I've been asleep for the last half hour, I think." Sherlock knew he was being uncharacteristically silly. Perhaps it was exhaustion causing it. But he also thought that maybe he just felt a bit giddy by all that had happened. He squeezed John again and said, "Thank you, John. Thank you for helping me solve this case."

John lifted his head to kiss him.

Sherlock kissed back and then let his head fall to the pillow as he curled around him. "Good night, John Watson."

"Good night, Sherlock."


End file.
